I imagine office life is a bit like prison life.
Not the stuff about getting savagely bummed in the showers or buying porn with batteries and cigs or having to make a knife out of a toothbrush and a razor blade to stripe a nonce, nothing like that.
I’m on about getting shoved in a big room with a load of strangers for much of the day, people you’d never actually choose to associate with if you weren’t forced to, and then having to get on with them, interact with them, avoid killing them.
Because office life is hopelessly inane.
I bet prison life is hopelessly inane as well, only you can brew your own hooch in a bucket under your bed in prison, or tattoo a tear drop onto your cellmate’s face with a rusty pin, and there is always that potential for spontaneous violence to add a little spice to the day.
I don’t think there’s ever been an office in the history of offices that’s had a lock down enforced after the staff kicked off because of a shortage of paperclips, resulting in a thirty six hour siege and shit smeared water coolers and a burnt out stationary cupboard and the work experience girl getting her throat cut in a bungled hostage situation.
don’t get me wrong, if it ever does kick off I’ll be the first on the roof with my shirt wrapped around my face lobbing tiles at the rozzers and demanding helicopters and pepperoni pizzas, but I can’t see it happening any time soon.
Office types are a docile bunch, generally speaking.
They live in a world that is obvious, predictable, inane.
For example, I grew a moustache. A great big fuck off moustache. Not a Movember thing, this one was big porn star/European partisan/finch-perched-under-the-nose size moustache.
An office drone trundled past to the tea urn.
He stopped in his tracks, double taking the moustache nestled under my sneezer.
He took a couple of steps closer.
I ignored him.
He kept smiling.
I kept ignoring him.
He cleared his throat a bit, so I looked at him.
He smiled again, kind of raising his mug to point at my face, so I said,
He said, “You’ve got a moustache.”
I said, “Yes.”
I ignored him again, but he kept staring, and he said, “Moustache,” and I said “I know,” and he eventually fucked off.
He must have informed the other drones about the wondrous news, because this incident happened twice more in the day, word for fucking word.
Then I finished for the day and clocked out and went home and I had a drink and I shaved of my moustache, then got angry for doing so because I felt like the drones had somehow won.
But just like prison, not everybody in an office is an utter cunt.
There’s a bloke on my shift called Twinkle.
I’ve not worked with him before, he works in another department, but we all had a bit of a reshuffle so know I’m in a room with Twinkle.
Twinkle is gay. I mean really, really gay. I’ve met plenty of gay people, but Twinkle is by far the gayest. Everything he does gets that special sprinkle of magic gay dust, so that mundane things suddenly shimmer a bit.
What is it that makes one person gayer than another? If you know any gay people, or you’re gay yourself, let me know.
I like Twinkle. He’s really honest and open, not like the others. Maybe it’s something to do with coming out. Once your honest about your sexuality, maybe it’s easier to just be open about everything else.
Twinkle has a ruddy drinker’s complexion and I like him for that too. He won’t eat bread because he says it will make him fat, but he loves the vino tinto.
He calls everyone ‘captain’ in a way that suggests he’s hailing a large ship from on board a small dinghy.
I don’t really talk to him much, I don’t really talk to anyone much lately, but he came over to me the other day while I was working.
“Now then, Twinkle. How’s it hanging?”
“Ooh, you know, little to the left and just North of the knee! Hee hee!”
“Nice. You busy?”
“No, Luci, dead quiet! Just been online, ordering a new collar for my little doggy.”
“What kind of dog you got?”
“Figures, I suppose. You won’t have bought him one of those big studded collars then.”
“Ooh, no! This one’s lovely. Cost me over two hundred quid!”
“Two hundred! Fuck me, Twinkle, what’s it made of? Solid gold? You’ll break the little sod’s neck!”
“No, silly! This one’s got pearls on it. Real pearls!”
“Twinkle, does a dog really need a collar with pearls on it?”
“Whether he needs them or not, he almost got a pearl necklace last night when he jumped on the bed, so I thought I’d get him his own so we’d be matching! Hee hee!”
“Fucking hell, Twinkle, how come gay men are always so bloody randy? The chances of me getting my end away on Tuesday night are exactly zero, yet you and your bloke are giving each other facials with the fucking dog barking encouragement. I don’t get it!”
“The thing is, Luci, we don’t have any of that messing about like women do. I say to a bloke, ‘fancy a fuck’, he’s says, ‘go on then’, we fuck, I cum, he cums, we both get dressed, have a glass of wine and watch telly. Simple as.”
“Sounds ideal, putting it like that.”
“Exactly! Never fancied giving it a go?”
“What, being gay? Not really, no. The life style sounds pretty good, but it’s getting bummed that I’m not keen on.”
“That’s the best bit!”
“Each to his own.”
“What I want to know, Luci, is if you’re feeling horny and the wife’s not putting out, what do you do?”
“I do what the vast majority of the male heterosexual married population do when they’re randy. I have a wank.”
“Oh! Does the wife not mind then?”
“Mind? She encourages it! She sees it as one less job for her to do. It’s like her coming home and finding I’ve cleaned the oven. She’s pleased she doesn’t have to do it.”
“Seems a shame!”
“It is a bit, I suppose. What about your bloke, then. Does he mind you having a crafty wank?”
“Ooh yes! He gets terribly jealous! If I’ve been wanking then there’s nowt left for him, is there? Besides, I do get a bit… obsessive about it, when I start.”
“yeah, I can’t stop myself! Hee hee!”
“Just out of interest, what are we talking about here? How many times are you doing it in a day then?”
“Fifteen or sixteen times.”
“What?? Jesus, your cock must be a wreck after that kind of session!”
“It is a bit red, yeah.”
“Red? I’ll reckon it looks like your chihuahua has been gnawing it!”
“I think that’s what pisses my boyfriend off most. He won’t go near it when it looks like that, you know, all weepy…”
“I can’t say I blame him. Seems like a sensible bloke.”
“Oh he is, he is! I’ve got a picture of him on my phone, if you want to see what he looks like!”
“Well… go on then.”
“Give me a minute.. on here some where… Here we go! This is Gary!”
Very nice. He keeps himself very neat and tidy, doesn’t he.”
Yes. I’ve always gone for the groomed look. Here he is on holiday in Marbella.”
“Lovely. When did you go there?”
“Last Summer. Oh look! Here’s Christmas! He’s wearing a Santa hat, see?”
“Yeah, so he is. Look, Twinkle, have you got any pictures of Gary’s face? These are all pictures of his cock, and while that’s fine and everything, it’s just not my thing. No offense.”
Twinkle flicked through the pictures on his phone.
“Hmm.. I could have sworn there was at least one… Nope! It’s all cocks I’m afraid! Heehee!”
“Oh well. I’m sure he’s… very handsome, or something.”
Twinkle was looking very intently at the phone.
His booze burnt face flushed and sweat beaded his shaved head.
His hand slipped into his trouser pocket, started to rummage.
I said, “Look, I’ve got some work to finish off here, Twinkle…”
“Oh. no problem!” he replied. “Listen, Luci, you’re not needing the lavvies in the foreseeable, are you?”
I kept my gaze fixed on the monitor. “No. You get in there and have yourself a party mate. Don’t leave an mess though, eh?”
“Cheers Luci, your a pal.”
Twinkle scuttled off.
I was left alone in the office.
Twinkle was gone for two hours.
At home time he still hadn’t surfaced.
I thought about knocking on the bog door, seeing if he was alright.
Then I thought about what I might see, decided to give it a miss.
I packed my things away, turned off the light, fucked off home.
I came in to work last Monday.
Where Twinkle should have been sitting there was a massive Christmas tree.
It was one of nasty silver tinsel plastic pieces of crap, dripping in neon baubles and lights, blinking dementedly at a frequency that would have given Stevie Wonder an epileptic fit.
I walked over to the nearest office drone, shielding my eyes to avoid spazzing out on the carpet.
“Here, drone, where’s Twinkle?”
“Oh, hi Luci. Twinkle got the sack.”
“Fuck! How come?”
“They said he wasn’t working hard enough, that he was always tossing it off.”
“Fair point, I suppose. What’s this fucking monstrosity doing here then?” I asked, pointing at the tree.
“Well, we had a bit of a think, and we decided we didn’t want anything quite as camp and glittery as Twinkle anymore, so we got that.”
I looked at the tree, started to feel all swimmy and sick, looked away.
“Poor fucker. Nice time to sack a bloke that, isn’t it? Right before Christmas!”
“Maybe he could get a part time job here Luci – we’re looking for a fairy for the top of the tree! Ha ha ha! Ha ha ha!”
“Fuck off, drone.”
Drone looked hurt.
I went back to my desk.
For some reason I couldn’t help thinking of Gary’s cock wearing a Santa hat.